Ferry to Williamstown

By Colin Heston

Lizzie Malley entertains her powerful and kinky clients (the Mayor of Melbourne, an Aussie rules hero, a famous Queens Counsel) in her Winnebago parked on the old Williamstown Ferry. Her father Sandy is the union boss on the wharf, and her Mom, Babs, rules the roost from her kitchen. When shaven and disfigured bodies pop up in the Yarra beside t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harrow and Heston Publishers
• Release date: Dec 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9780911577464

Colin Heston

Colin Heston is the pen name of a criminologist of international repute. His previous fiction includes The Tommie Felon Show (2017), 9/11 Two (2016) Miscarriages (2018, 2019 Australian edition) and Ferry to Williamstown (2020). He has written nonfiction books on the history of punishment and torture, edited a four volume encyclopedia, Crime and Punishment around the World, and regularly contributes to a variety of criminology and criminal justice periodicals. His forthcoming fiction includes, Holy Water a satirical farce, due for release in mid 2020. He is currently putting the finishing touches to his next nonfiction book, Civilization and Barbarism, for release by SUNY Press, 2020.

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FERRY TO WILLIAMSTOWN

FERRY TO WILLIAMSTOWN

A Novel by

Colin Heston

HARROW AND HESTON

Publishers

Australia, New York & Philadelphia

Copyright © 2019 Harrow and Heston, Publishers.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Harrow and Heston Publishers

Australia, New York & Philadelphia

www.harrowandheston.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019955431

ISBN: 978-0-911577-45-7

CONTENTS

1. Willy's Kitchen1

2. Winners and Losers21

3. Babs' Kitchen43

4. Web of Suspicion56

5. Hairless Bodies68

6. Criminal Justice85

7. All in the Family103

8. Tricks of the Trade117

9. Finding Monie126

10. Lennie Finds Monie136

11. Web of Intrigue146

12. A Family Business162

13. Family Affairs175

14. . On the Waterfront181

15. Revelations191

16. Dead Again199

17. Striker Moves In212

18. A Shallow Plot223

19. Deliverance240

20. Catholics and Communists251

21. The Confession272

22. St. Robert's Toe279

23. Monie Resurrected294

24. Escape305

About the Author316

1. Willy's Kitchen

Babs slammed the phone down. You’re the daughter from hell! That’s what you are! she muttered, yet again. Every Friday night at seven, she called Lizzie, and every time, Lizzie answered the same thing. I’m not coming Mum, I’ve told you a thousand times. The men get drunk, they can’t keep their hands to themselves.

Thinks she’s too good for us, and she lives on a bloody Winnebago, muttered Babs to herself as she carefully lifted a tray of sausage rolls from the oven and slid them on to a plate. Why couldn’t she be like Ryley, she asked herself, why does she have to be so difficult? We did everything we could to make her happy. And the more we did the more trouble she gave us.

Holding the plate of sausage rolls in one hand and a bottle of ketchup in the other, Babs stood in the kitchen doorway. Only a skinny five feet tall, if that, she filled the entire doorway, narrow as was the rest of the house. Husband Sandy rummaged in the refrigerator for more beer.

Come on, you bastards, if you want something to eat you better come and get it! Babs yelled, unheard.

Even if the noise were in a large room it would have been deafening, but in their little living room, crammed full of old worn furniture, two easy chairs and matching sofa, all padded with floral designs aping those in stained glass windows, a tiny round rosewood coffee table, two dark wooden dining chairs (they had no dining room) a foot-stool to match the sofa, and satin covered cushions distributed all over the floor between the furniture legs, the noise filled the room even more than the furniture. And in the far corner, the one just below the front window, sat the centrepiece of the room, the source of the racket, the radio and LP record player in a curved cabinet, speakers built into the streamlined face. There were maybe a dozen people crammed into the room, all talking, beers in their hands, a few trying to sing along with the record.

Babs tip-toed forward, trying to step between the legs of bodies on the floor, grabbing the arms of furniture to keep her balance, proffering the sausage rolls as she went. She didn’t drink. It was the one big thing that Sandy had to work hard to forgive. Otherwise, in his eyes she was perfect. He came up behind her with a bottle of beer, extending it out to top up the blokes’ glasses.

Come one you buggers, he said, we’ve got another dozen to knock over yet.

No one answered. The buzz and chatter had stopped, though. And in its place the crescendo of two hundred male voices filled the room, probably finding its way down the street to the Methodist church, because Ryley, their son and proud university student, had reached over to the record player and turned up the volume to the max.

Listen! he called, waving lanky arms around like a drunken conductor, this is what Marx is all about!

Sandy, embarrassed, quickly filled up glasses, banging the neck of the beer bottle against their rims as he went. Babs leaned forward with her sausage rolls. Ryley, darl, turn it down a bit will you? The Methodists will be calling the cops ‘cos we’re disturbing the peace or some bloody thing.

The lyrics were absolutely clear, two hundred male voices in unison:

…No ne grusten ya, ne pechalen ya,

Uteshitel'na mne sud'ba moya…

Ryley stood tall, all six feet of him, his long black wavy hair fluttering as though to sound waves, his hand extended like Caesar’s, lip-sinking the Russian in English:

…All zat is best in life zat God gave us,

In sacrifice I rrre-turned to the fierrry eyes!

(Vsyo chto luchshevo v zhizni Bog dal nam,

V zhertvu otdal ya ognevym glazam!

Ryley, stop showing off! cried Babs, proudly.

It’s the Red Army Choir! he yelled in response.

Then a voice, a rough female voice at that, fired off from somewhere on the floor, maybe behind the sofa.

He’s got it wrong. Since when did Marx believe in God?

Get stuffed, Monie, answered Ryley, "Dark Eyes is just an old Russian folk song. It’s how they sing together that’s important."

Two hundred male penises spouting together, Monie joked as she stood up from behind the couch.

Don’t you see? There’s no harmony. There’s no upper and lower parts. All the singers are equal, countered Ryley.

So there’s no class distinction. I get it.

Ryley, turn it down, called his Mum.

Simone Crenshaw, Monie for short, drunk as usual every Friday night, dropped down behind the couch and lit a cigarette. Bobby, Babs’s youngest brother, number four that is, was trying unsuccessfully to make out with her as he did every Friday night when he also got drunk. But when Monie got drunk, all she wanted to do was argue, her tongue splattering saliva everywhere, especially on her thick glasses. His brothers, Babs too, made fun of his infatuation, if that is what it could be called. More like lechery. No one knew her age, but Babs reckoned Monie was in her early forties, whereas baby Bobby was late thirties, thirty-eight to be exact, coming on thirty nine next month. Babs leaned over the couch.

Hey Bobby, you want the last sausage roll?

Piss off, sis, can’t you see I’m busy?

Yair, a sausage roll will take care of that mouth of yours. Bab’s picked up the sausage roll from the plate and popped it into his mouth just as he was about to answer. He tried to talk, but nothing came out except bits of sausage roll sprayed all over.

Bloody hell, Bobby. I’m getting out of here, said Monie as she struggled up and fell over the couch on to the cushion then onto the floor. Where’s my bloody husband? Her husband, Lennie Stalinsky, rarely showed up to these weekly booze-ups. Every Friday they all came together down at the Steam Packet pub around five. Drank till six, then retired with the appropriate amount of booze to Sandy and Babs’s narrow little town house at sixty eight Cecil street and boozed on.

Hey Mum! Ryley called, did you make any of those party pies?

Babs turned, a cross grin on her face. 'Course not. Who do you think I am, your lackey?

Aww, Mum! Don’t be so crabby.

Of course I made party pies.

I knew it. Good-on-yer Mum! You’re a beauty!

Yair, yair. When are you going to marry someone who’ll cook them for you?

Don’t start on that again, Mum. She’d never cook as good as you, now would she?

Depends who she was, don’t it?

Monie staggered up then fell against Ryley whose long arm hit the turntable. There was a screech and the crooning of the two hundred throbbing penises was no more. Cries and moans went up from all the blokes. Ryley placed the turntable arm at rest. Shit, Monie, get the fuck out of here, he mumbled as he carefully picked up the LP and examined it for a scratch, go on, get off home to Lennie.

I’m not bloody leaving. I’m staying here to teach you some Marx. What do they teach you at university these days anyway?

Get stuffed, Monie. Go on, get home to your useless hubby. He could do with a refresher course on Marx anyway.

So you’ve joined the intelligentsia, have you, you smart-ass?

"The Russian intelligentse never went to university, you don’t know anything. Go on, get!"

Bobby stood up and grabbed one of Ryley’s waving arms. Leave her alone, he said, I’ll take her down to the ferry. She lives in Richmond, for Christ sake. She can’t get there all by herself in her condition and she doesn’t have a car, does she?

She can take the train, can’t she? asked Ryley, shaking his arm free.

She could, but I wouldn’t do that to her. The hooligans will be out in force with all their antics.

They climb out the window while its going, and they maul the passengers too, said Babs, Ryley darl, don’t you ever read the papers?

It’s a bit early to be calling it a night, said Bobby, but hey, there’s time to get her on the ferry and across to Richmond.

Bobby grabbed Monie by the arm, trying to be tender, which for him it was, except that he had huge hands, puffed up they looked, but with solid muscles and knobby tendons as a result of his working with ropes and pulleys all day on the Williamstown ferry.

Let go of me! cried Monie.

You’re coming with me, you silly bitch.

Bobby, watch your language! ordered big sister Babs.

So is anybody else going to take her?

Go on, get! I’ll phone Lennie to meet her at the ferry terminal, called Babs.

Bobby half dragged, part carried Monie out through the front door, thrusting the screen door open so hard it banged against the house, then dragged her behind him as he limped down the little steps and through the old gate to his Hillman Imp.

Babs turned towards the kitchen. The party pies would be ready. To think that was how she’d be remembered when she was dead. The pies and all the stuff she cooked to feed the men. She turned to face the old wood stove. Sandy had promised to get her a new gas one when a big deal went down very soon.

That’s what he thinks I want. I’m gripping the old oven glove and I want to put it in my mouth and tear it to pieces with my false teeth. Of course I’d like a new stove. But is that all I’m worth? I cook and wash dishes and clean up the house after Sandy’s mates have gone, and I wash and iron his clothes. That’s all I did for twenty years or more. And what about our two kids? While Sandy was at work, lording it over the wharfies, I’m stuck at home with two little brats, chasing after them, doing everything a good Mum is supposed to do. I’m not complaining, mind you. Don’t get me wrong. Sandy and I, we’ve never had a bad word between us. Well, that’s not saying much, because Sandy is the strong silent type, everyone says, and I knew it before we were married at Saint Mary’s just down the street from us. And Ryley and Lizzie, they’re doing all right now. Ryley at Melbourne Uni doing a P-H-D whatever that is, but they say you have to be really smart to do it. And Lizzie, well, I better not say too much about her. I think she’s all right. I don’t see much of her, to be honest. She drops in from time to time, but I hear of her from Bobby who sees her on the ferry quite a bit. He says she’s doing great. Runs some kind of consulting service in Melbourne for smart-ass executives, he says. Then last year—it was only a year ago, around Australia Day I think it was, I decided to do something more. I went out and got a job. Well, I didn’t exactly go looking for one. It kind of fell into my lap. I was walking down Nelson Place, going to drop by the barber shop, the one that J.J. Liston owned, now owned by my brother, number three, christened Lauchlan by my mother to emphasize our Scottish heritage and demonstrate to everyone that we weren’t Irish but Scottish, and solid Catholics none the less. She was a piece of work, my mother, but that’s another story. Anyway, Lauchlan was too big a word for anyone to say, so we all called him Lockie, though many changed that to Lucky on account of he loved the horses, the dogs and anything else he could bet on, and I’d say he’s probably worth a lot more than J. J. Liston when he owned the barber shop.

The slight smell of burning pastry wafted up from the oven. Babs shook her head and stooped to open the oven door and pull out the pies, just in time.

Hey Babs, you’re not burning the bloody pies, are yer? someone called out from the living room, amidst lots of laughter. Sandy was right behind her, though, grinning. He knew his mates got on her nerves, but he said nothing. Babs lifted the tray of pies on to the top of the stove. They were a little over done, just how he liked them. The smell was better than any smell he ever knew.

Get out of the way, you old bugger, and hand me the big plate, rattled Babs with a big smile, and you’d better ring Lennie to tell him to pick up his missus at the ferry.

*

Bobby pulled his Imp into the small parking lot under the solitary street light. Monie was snoring beside him. He looked over at her and wondered why he kept after her. Amazing what the booze will do. Bloody awful hag, that’s what she was. He climbed out into the faint drizzle that hung in the air making the late season moths and insects glimmer in the single street light above. The ferry was moored and there was no sign of any cars, save that of Eurie the abbo, his co-ferry captain. But there were people crowded at the gangway, calling out, shouting to each other. Something had happened. He limped over as quickly as he could, leaving Monie to her slumbers.

What’s going on? he called as he got closer and saw Eurie with one of their biggest boat hooks trying to drag something out of the water.

There’s a body! someone called, it’s a rotten body!

Probably from the meat packing plant down by North Shore.

Nah. It’s a human, that’s for sure.

Bobby pushed his way into the front of the crowd to help his mate pull in the body. They managed to get it up on to the landing and with a splat it landed on its back, the head banging on the concrete, causing a mass of little crabs that had been sucking on the lips and eyeballs to break free and run for the water. Shit! the crowd said almost in unison, as everyone tried to decide whether to turn and run, or lean further forward to look at the ghastly thing, a sight that each and every person there would remember for a lifetime.

Someone phone the cops!

Is there a phone on the ferry?

Of course not. There’s a phone booth at the end of the car park.

I’ll phone them. My brother’s the local cop, called Bobby as he made off, skipping with his limp across the car park, taking a quick look on his way to see if Monie was still out to it, which she was. He knew that Shooter, his big brother, the second eldest of the boys, wasn’t at the police station but at Sandy and Babs’ place, of course. It was Friday night after all. He dialled Babs’s number looking out at the ferry as he waited. The Winnebago was parked on the far corner, as usual. He could see a faint light on inside, and thought he saw the dim shadows of someone, or two. This time of night, he didn’t expect any ferry riders. When he was on the late shift he often closed up if there was no one around.

Babs’s phone rang.

G’day! someone yelled, whatdya bloody want?

Lockie, you silly bugger, it’s Bobby.

Yair, well so what, Gimpy.

Stuff you too.

So what’s up? Monie spewed up in your car or something?

Nah. She’s still out to it. But something’s happened. Is Shooter there?

Yair, he’s had a few though. What’s happened? You had a bingle?

No. We fished out a body from the water, just near the ferry.

No kidding? I bet you I know who it is.

Bugger you Lockie, put Shooter on.

No, I tellya. I bet I know. A tenner? Bet you a tenner?

Lockie you hopeless bugger, put Shooter on.

Hey Shooter, your gimpy little brother wants to talk to you!

Lockie, how many times have I told you, don’t call Bobby Gimpy. Think yourself lucky it didn’t happen to you, cried Babs.

There, there Mum. I’m only fooling around. Shooter, can you get Shooter?

Shooter! Bobby wants you! He says it’s urgent, she yelled trying to make herself heard over the Red Army choir. And Ryley, for Christ sake, Babs crosses herself, turn that Red Army down!

Shooter, quite sozzled, struggled up off the couch where he had been in deep conversation with Ryley.

Take it from me, says Ryley, there’s going to be trouble. The unions won’t stand for it. Ask Dad, he’ll tell you. He ran his fingers through his brimming black hair, thick as a mop, so thick that the kids at school called him Dago, the Italian, even though he was as Irish—well Scottish—as anyone in Williamstown knew. But Ryley was a big kid even then, so not too many were game to call him that except behind his back.

I know, I know. You think I don’t know what’s going on? said Shooter, I talk with Sandy all the time.

Shooter reached the kitchen and took the phone from Lockie who grinned, unable to contain himself. I bet it’s the prime minister, I bet you a tenner, he said.

What are you bloody talking about? asked Shooter.

Shooter? Is that you? It’s Bobby.

What’s the problem? I can’t hear you. Hey, Ryley, turn down the record. Turn it down!

There’s a body.

Gimpy? What did you say? A body?

We just fished it out of the water next to the ferry.

Yair? You know who it is?

Nah. Body’s all shrunk up. Horrible sight, I tellya. You better come down. They was gunna call the cops so I said I’d do it.

I’m on my way. Babs where’s my cap?

Where you left it. How would I know? I’m only the cook and bottle washer around here.

Now Babs, don’t be so touchy.

I’m not your mother, lucky for you.

All right, all right!

If she was here she’d quickly fix you up, cop or no cop.

Major Mum! You’re just like her. Now where’s my cap? Can’t go out on official duty without it.

It’s over here, you were sitting on it, called Ryley, I hope you can shoot straight, he grinned.

Bobby was still talking, describing in detail what the corpse looked like. But then he realized there was nobody on the other end. Shooter had hung up. He banged the receiver down, actually more than banged it, he was angry. They all treated him like he was a half-wit just because he limped. Bastards! he yelled, and banged the receiver several times at the booth window until it cracked and bits of the Bakelite hand-piece broke off. He thrust open the door in time to see that Monie had woke up and was meandering towards the ferry. He skipped across to catch her before she got to the bunch of men still talking and pointing at the corpse. Her thick rimmed glasses hung down on one ear, her hair all ruffled, and lipstick smudged. She looked even more of a mess than usual. He grabbed her by the arm and steered her back to the car.

Better wait in the car. There’s been a body found in the water.

Let me see it! Let me see!

It’s nothing a woman should see, said Bobby, now calm again.

You fuckn bourgeois Willy people. There’s nothing a real woman shouldn’t see! she yelled, shaking off his grip and staggering towards the spectacle. I’ll decide for myself what I can look at!

You can’t even walk straight, you’re so drunk, snarled Bobby.

Yeh. You should talk, and she staggered off, leaving Bobby fuming once again. But he pursed his lips and contained himself as he approached the small group of onlookers.

I called the cops. They’ll be here any minute, he announced to the group. But then he saw that there was someone else in charge, all very official, a large rotund gentleman in an impeccable uniform, lots of stars on his cap and stripes on the sleeves.

All right. Stand back everyone, he ordered quietly, turning to Bobby, so you’ve called the local police?

Yes sir, Shooter, I mean senior constable Frank Frost, will be here any minute.

Bobby looked around for a police car and wondered how this bloke got here and who he was. Then he felt Monie tugging at his arm. Now what? he asked belligerently.

It’s the fuckn Commissioner! she blurted thinking she was whispering, but everyone there heard her.

That’s right Madam. I am Gordon Trinity, Chief Commissioner of the Victoria police, at your service. It’s fortunate that I happened to be here when I saw the disturbance. I must now ask you all to stand well back, this is a serious police investigation and crime scene.

A siren sounded and lights showed up in the distance, probably coming from Douglas Parade. The Commissioner busied himself herding the onlookers back, his short arms poking out, looking a bit like Humpty Dumpty. Then Shooter appeared on the scene, and just as quickly, the Commissioner disappeared. Bobby thought he saw him, a dark shimmering shadow returning to the ferry, walking in the direction of a Winnebago.

*

Lennie Stalinsky was no hero, but he felt deeply for the impoverished condition of all workers everywhere and from a very young age he had devoted his life to the cause of ill-treated workers. His father, a holocaust Jew as he called himself, lost his entire family to Hitler’s gas chambers, with the exception of his twelve year old son Lennie, and by a series of escapades ended up in Australia via Cuba. He repeated many times to Lennie that he’d brought with him on that Ulysses-like journey the only two possessions that he had left: his son Lennie, and just one book, his bible of sorts, Frederick Engels’ The Condition of the English Working Class.

Lennie now sat in the dimly lit alcove of his tiny rented flat on Jessie street in Richmond, clutching the book in his hands. Its old red cover was well worn and deeply discoloured from the dirt and grease of constant handling, the pages frayed, the colour of rust on their edges, so brittle they were difficult to turn without tearing or even disintegrating in his fingers. It had helped him over many a crisis even though it had itself been the source of perhaps one of the most traumatic events in his life, a nightmare of sorts.

We’ve just come down the gang plank of this old freighter and I’m hanging on to Dad’s hand. He’s got this old leather bag in his other hand that has all our possessions in it. There are rows of ships, all looking rusty and broken, moored along the pier, Port Melbourne as I found out later. We’re herded into the customs house and there’s a row of officers standing there waiting to interrogate us. We’re dressed in our ragged coats and jumpers even though it’s a hot summer day, we have no other way to carry them and we’ve learned that you have to keep your things close to you or you lose them. An officer singles us out and points to the leather bag. Open it, he says, and my father struggles to undo the latch. I pull away from his hand and go to help him, but it’s too late and he drops the bag on the floor and some of the contents fall out, among them The Condition of the English Working Class, which I of course quickly grab up and hold close to my chest with both hands.

Let me see that book, demands the officer.

I stand frozen. My Dad starts to put things back in the bag.

You speak English? asks the officer, in a really loud voice.

I wait for my Dad to answer but he doesn’t. He’s still rummaging in the bag.

Yes, I say.

Good. Then let me see the book. It’s got a red cover, so I think I know what it is and you can’t bring that book into Australia. It’s against the law.

It’s just a book, I say in disbelief.

Let me see it. I know it’s a communist book, so give it up.

I don’t move, keep hugging the book to my chest. It’s not! It’s not! I cry, it’s the only book we have. Please let us keep it! Please! Tears are running down my cheeks.

The officer moves towards me and I cringe, and in a flash he swipes the book straight out of my hands. If you’re coming to live in this country you have to learn to obey its rules. Books by Karl Marx are banned and that’s that!

This rouses my father. But sir, it is not Karl Marx. Just an old historian who lived his life in England.

The officer flips through the book, and not seeing Marx as the author, hands it back to me. It’s in German anyway. You read this book, son?

No Mister, sir. My Dad reads it to me in English.

A quiet knock on the door was enough to snap Lennie out of his reverie. It must be O’Shea, he thought. Then the phone rang. Just a minute, he called to the door as he picked up the phone on the stand in the hallway.

Lennie Stalinsky speaking, he said.

Lennie. Sandy Malley. You better come and get Monie. She’s had a few too many. Bobby’s taking her to the ferry.

Why doesn’t she take the train?

She’s too far gone. The hooligans on the Willy train will maul her.

Lennie sighed and muttered to himself, as if I don’t have enough to worry about, but he could hear the Red Choir rising above the chatter in the background and it gave him heart.

You there Lennie? You hear me?

Yes, yes. It’s just that someone’s at the door. I’ll be there to get her. About when do you think?

I’d say about half an hour or a bit more. Everything all right? No cops banging on your door or anything? I know what it’s like.

No, nothing like that. Or at least not yet. But you know that things are a bit dicey with what’s happening with O’Shea.

Yair, I heard—Hey! Turn that bloody noise down!—If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.

Thanks, Sandy. You’re a great comrade.

Comrade? Enough of that commie talk. We’re good mates, right? This is Australia, not Germany.

Yes, yes, comrade Malley. Got to go.

Lennie hung up the phone and opened the door. There stood O’Shea, a shocking sight. He’d lost so many pounds in just a few weeks, his once jolly square Irish face seemed to have narrowed, the lines deep, the skin sagging into thin jowls, grey and sickly. His hair, grey at an early age, now turning white, was combed back from high on his forehead, just enough hair to show some waves. His eyelashes were already a stark white, and there were no eyebrows to speak of. Lennie, around six feet tall, towered above him. They shook hands, and Lennie was pleased to feel a tight grip. He hasn’t lost his will yet, he thought.

Clarrie, you beauty. Come right in. I’ve only got a few minutes. Got to go to the Williamstown ferry to fetch Monie. What’s up?

I’m going on a hunger strike.

Shit, Clarrie, you look like you already started.

Nah. Just been so busy, haven’t slept in I dunno how long.

What can I do for you?

You’re good mates with Sandy Malley, right?

Funny. I was just talking to him. He phoned me to pick up Monie from one of their Friday night shin-digs.

Do you think he could get the wharfies to go out on strike to support me?

Why? Things have got so bad?

That bloody asshole Kerr is threatening to send me to gaol if I don’t open the union books for inspection and have my blokes pay up the $8,000 fine the Industrial Court levied against the Tramways Union. He claims I’ll be in contempt of court.

He can’t do that!

I know they’re following me around all the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was someone right outside the door ready to grab me.

But there’d have to be a court hearing, right? They can’t just put you in gaol, can they?

They can do what they like, that’s the way it looks to me. But a court hearing has been scheduled for next Thursday.

The fifteenth?

I s’pose so.

That gives us six days.

Right.

Isn’t the Trades Hall doing anything? Surely they should be on your side?

Bloody typical. They’re just sitting by watching it all happen. They’re not supporting us.

You know, I’ve long suspected that they’ve been paid off. They’re not on our side, that’s for sure.

You’re right there.

Clarrie, you can depend on me. I’ll call a meeting of the Party and get in touch with Sandy right away.

You’ll phone him?

Too risky. I better go see him in person.

"I better be off then. Have more stops to make, getting a lot of support from a lot of other unions.

"I’ll wait a while before I go out. I think I’ll take the train to Willy. And I’ll talk to my blokes. We’re a national party now you know. We have a lot of contacts with unions all over Australia. We’ll have to keep it quiet. If the Age or Sun know we’re collaborating, they’ll call it a communist revolt, and you’ll lose popular support right away."

Rightee-o. Thanks Lennie.

They shook hands, a firm determined hand shake, then Lennie let him out the door, both men looking furtively up and down the street. It seemed deserted. He closed the door and immediately went to his desk to retrieve his diary. It awaited him in a small drawer sitting atop the old writing desk he had bought some years ago at the auction house a few blocks down Swan street. It reminded him of the desk his father had in their Berlin apartment. Dark rosewood, or that was its colour, round except for one straight side so that it would fit in the little alcove flush against the wall just below the front window that looked out on the street; that is, when the curtains were opened, which was not often because Monie didn’t like windows, thought people were sticky-noses. She liked it dark inside. He didn’t know why, even though he’d asked her often enough. She never gave a reason. After a while he stopped asking her. She had her secrets, lots of them he suspected, though he thought that by now he ought to know them all. After all, he picked her up off the street, where she was half-begging, half-sleeping, homeless —although it turned out she wasn’t homeless, far from it. Instead, she’d decided to live like the homeless to see what it was like, so she said, and it was then that she got started on the plonk, and maybe worse, smoking cigarette buts, and became a smoking addict, her voice now beginning to crackle like potato chips in a paper bag. But you couldn’t believe anything she said about her past.

Lennie and Monie had been together now for several years, Monie coming and going as she pleased, working as a social worker for the Victorian Education Department. A bunch of them drank at the Royal down on Punt Road. A lot of them were communists, or commo sympathizers as the Sun would call them.

*

Bobby helped the ambulance blokes and watched as Shooter started to herd the onlookers away, barking at them to go home. Boy! Did he like to give orders. He’d been like it all his life, no wonder he became a cop. That, or a school teacher, but then, that was left for Tommy the eldest who, until he left for the war, gave the orders with great gusto. That left the two poor buggers at the bottom of the food chain, the slaves of the clan, Lockie and the baby Bobby who everyone treated like a little kid and never would let him grow up. He was the pathetic one, the one who always had something wrong with him, was always sick, was always whining and after all he had that limp, none of his doing, the real victim of Major Mum. Though, as often happens, God had worked his fair and balanced magic and saw that Bobby would grow up to be the biggest of all the boys by far. And in a scrap, which still occurred from time to time, especially on Friday booze nights, he came out the winner every time.

All right, get away from the ambulance. Come on! We haven’t got all night! yelled Shooter, there’s nothing more to see. Go back to your homes. There’s nothing more.

Who is it, then? asked someone.

How should I know? Now get going, all of you!

Bobby grinned to himself. It was nice to hear him ordering someone else around instead of himself. But the thought came too soon.

Bobby! Come here, I want you to take some notes for me while I talk to your ferry mate.

I’m no constable’s lackey, he growled.

Where’s your sense of duty? You’re a citizen, it’s not much to ask.

All right! All right! I’m coming.

Bobby limped slowly across to the gangway where Shooter stood, interviewing Eurie. He handed Bobby a notebook and biro pen.

Name?

Eureka Smith.

What? That’s your name? Are you sure about that?

It’s not my fault, is it?

There’s a severe penalty for lying to a police officer you know.

All I did was fish a body out of the water, and you’re threatening me already, replied Eurie belligerently. You cops are all alike, you treat us abbo’s like we’re all drunks and thieves.

Shooter ignored the remark. All right. At what time did you first see the body?

When I was tying up the ferry, about half past seven.

And what did you see, exactly?

I saw this thing floating on top of the water, big, a big white bloated thing.

You getting this down Bobby?

Yair, sort of. Bobby didn’t like writing much. He wasn’t that good at school.

Then what did you do?

Well, it was wedged between the ferry and the pier. As soon as I got the gang plank down I got the boat hook and that’s when Bobby helped me drag the body up onto the jetty.

I see. Was there any clothing?

Only what was on it that you already saw. Pants all torn, clinging to his ass and one of the legs.

You knew it was male?

I kind of guessed I suppose. It was, wasn’t it? I mean it had pants.